


five

by Ellipsical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Care of Magical Creatures, Established Relationship, Everything is consensual, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Mpreg because species barriers and all that jazz, OctoJohn, Ok that one made me laugh so I had to add it, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock is the Newt Scamander of the Muggle World and he takes his job very seriously, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, magical sea creatures in heat, yes yes I'll stop now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 05:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13311480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: John is a magical sea creature in heat.Um. He changes form once every three months to mate. Um. Yeah. You might just have to go with it.I was inspired to write a PWP when someone told me I shouldn't, because hey! I believe that porn is important and that porn just for the sake of porn is extra important. Pleasure is important! And also, I've just discovered how much I like tentacle sex in fic and in my opinion there isn't enough of it. This is my first time writing anything in the realm of mating cycles as I don't read Omegaverse so if there are tags I need to put up top, please let me know.Guys, sometimes gifting a kinky kinky work to a friend is nerve-racking because you want to make sure they like it first! This is for Happierstill who is a wonderful friend and who sins with me and squees with me in text threads all the time. I love you!





	five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Happierstill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happierstill/gifts).



Hot lush skin opens around him as he licks. John’s body flowing down onto Sherlock’s tongue, opening, splitting, plum pink folds swelling with the beat of blood, as Sherlock pushes the tip inside.

John cries out, and trembles, trembles, shaking. His stomach muscles gather and bunch under Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock traces the ridges of John’s abs as he thrusts inside the tight clench of John’s body, stroking his fingertips through the sweat on his belly, which leaps beneath Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock slides his hands down until his palms encounter the transition from warm human flesh to the satiny thick muscle of John’s midnight blue lower torso and rest there, holding.

Sherlock can’t see John’s face around the flared cerulean skirt of the underside of his tentacles, but he can feel that he’s rapidly approaching his first orgasm. Sherlock can always tell when John is about to come. John has told him that the first one lasts the longest. That it prepares his body to take his mate’s seed and can go on for minutes, sometimes as long as a half an hour. His pink hole in the center of his body is pulsing against Sherlock’s lips, contracting around Sherlock as he alternates between plunging in and out and licking. Licking the thick, intoxicating juices that John’s body produces when he’s in heat.

Sherlock loves John like this. Feral. Lost in the need to rut and mate and seed and fuck.

John has been holding back so far; his body ripples with the tension of being held in check, but Sherlock knows what to expect once John starts to come against his mouth. Sherlock buries his face against John in anticipation as finally, finally, John floods Sherlock’s mouth, clasping rhythmically around Sherlock’s tongue and there, there, his body loosens, gives into his instincts, all of him writhing down to twine itself around Sherlock.

It happens quickly, two tentacles slide down Sherlock’s legs and pick him up and flip him, laying him out on the ground beside the salt water pool. The tile is cool against his feverish skin and he wriggles against it, his skin seething with pinpricks, as John moves over him, spreading Sherlock’s legs and holding him open.

John’s eyes are black and hazy as he gazes down at the wanton splay of Sherlock’s body.

John pulls him closer so that Sherlock’s arse slides up onto John’s torso, two tentacles winding beneath him to cushion him, hold him up, legs held wide. One reaches out and gathers Sherlock’s wrists, twining around them and drawing them up above Sherlock’s head, pulling him taut. John loves Sherlock like this, helpless and willing and at his mercy.

Sherlock loves it too. It’s such a change from John’s usual brand of solicitous love making, which is perfect and lovely most of the time, but Sherlock secretly covets when John’s body is gripped by his primal urges and they retreat to the bath house for the weekend for the use of the establishment’s private, underground, heated salt water pool.

For a moment John just looks at him, lets his eyes roam hungrily over Sherlock’s blushing skin. Sherlock is gleaming, slippery with sweat and steam, the salt from the pool drying tight and sticky on his legs. John reaches down and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him lazily, his other hand fondling his bollocks which have drawn up, two hot stones against Sherlock’s body. He’s testing to see how close Sherlock is. Sherlock bows up into the proprietary touch, letting a soft plaintive sound slip from his lips, which makes John’s eyes flick up to meet his. It is imperative that John’s body receive the most of Sherlock’s come and the first round will be the most important, when Sherlock’s seed will be the most potent and the most plentiful.

John must find him suitably ready because just as he leans down to kiss Sherlock, one of his tentacles moves between Sherlock’s open legs and slicks a long wet stripe against his hole.

Sherlock moans into John’s mouth, shivering. John bites at his lips, scraping his teeth over Sherlock’s bottom lip, before pressing the wet seam of his mouth to Sherlock’s to soothe the burn.

The tentacle, secreting its own lubricant, rubs against Sherlock down below. Over his perineum, exerting delicious pressure, and gliding between his cheeks to get him slippery and relaxed.

Even though he’s expecting it, he still gasps when he feels the tip breach him and snake inside.

It’s clever, sliding in thin and slick, letting Sherlock’s body adjust to the invasion before it begins to swell, pressing against the walls of Sherlock’s body as it pushes, thick and hot, deeper.

And deeper still.

Sherlock tries to push down onto it. Tries to fuck himself on it, but John is in control; he has no purchase, pinioned as he is.

“I love how you taste,” John murmurs, tasting Sherlock’s skin with his tongue and with his tentacles that stroke over Sherlock’s body.

John kisses down Sherlock’s body, as the tentacle inside Sherlock reaches the bright knot of his pleasure and strokes it once.

Twice.

And Sherlock bucks against his bonds, keening, and feels his cock pulse between them.

John makes a deep, growling noise in the back of his throat and pushes up onto his hands over Sherlock, looking down between them.

At where two drops of precome quiver, shining, on his stomach and he swallows thickly, meeting the dark heat of John’s gaze.

“Please,” Sherlock begs, voice hoarse and crackly with wanting, and it doesn’t take more than that for John to mount him.

To sink himself down onto Sherlock’s cock and impale himself on it.

Sherlock almost blacks out at the feel of John’s channel, tight as a fist and hot and slick as a mouth, sliding down over him.

The tentacles that were holding Sherlock’s legs open unwind, giving him some movement, to thrust his hips up to meet John as he rises up Sherlock’s shaft so that Sherlock can bury himself once more inside him. John collapses down over him, his hands twining with Sherlock’s above his head, their foreheads pressed together as they pant together, breathless at the feeling of being joined.

John’s tentacles refocus, moving beneath Sherlock to prop his hips up for a better angle, so that he can drive inside John and hit him where John needs him, where John needs Sherlock to fill him. When Sherlock’s heels slip against the tile, two slither down to wrap around his ankles and give him leverage to thrust up and meet John’s movements as he presses Sherlock’s wrists down into the ground and fucks himself on Sherlock’s cock.

“You smell incredible,” John moans, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s throat. “You don’t even know what you do to me. You drive me mad, Sherlock.”

Sherlock has lost the ability to speak, he just shakes his head, because John is wrong. He’s so utterly and completely wrong, because it’s John. It’s John who drives Sherlock mad. As the three month period between heats wanes John is the one who releases a scent so heady and potent and intoxicatingly sexy that it makes Sherlock unable to focus on anything but what is coming in the days ahead. It makes Sherlock’s mouth water every time John is near, the pheromones he releases into the air in 221B musky and sweet and salty at once. It coats the back of his throat and buzzes beneath Sherlock’s skin with a latent promise. They don’t make love in the days leading up to it, it is unspoken that Sherlock must conserve himself for John. It adds an edge to things. Both of them sparking like frayed electrical wires. John becomes steadily fiercer and more commanding as the instincts inside him grow more overpowering. He becomes possessive of Sherlock at crime scenes, becomes sensitive to every brush of Sherlock past him in the flat. It builds over days, days filled with exquisite torture as John struggles against his nature and continuously loses, where he has to find small ways to touch Sherlock, lay his scent on him, claim him, push him up against things and snog him, remind him who he belongs to.

Sherlock lives for it.

For this. The culmination. For John’s transformation. For John inside him, his tentacle shoving deep, spreading Sherlock’s arse wide around its penetrating arm, its tip milking Sherlock’s prostrate with frightening precision so that he spills every thick creamy drop inside John’s come hungry body, setting off tiny explosions that reverberate out through Sherlock in stinging whiplash surges, as John rises and falls over him, blanketing him in the slippery wet heat of his animal body, kissing Sherlock and kissing Sherlock and kissing Sherlock, all while he rides Sherlock’s cock hard and rough and good.

Pleasure builds beneath Sherlock’s skin, a pressure cresting through him, to string him out tight beneath John and John feels it, feels the tension in Sherlock’s body as he begins to clench around the tentacle dripping lubricant inside him.

“That’s it, that’s it, oh, love, come for me. Come for me.”

Sherlock shudders, shaking apart, as he spurts inside John’s body, filling him with hot, thick pumps of his come. John settles down flush against Sherlock’s hips with his eyes closed in bliss, hands spread on Sherlock’s chest, fingertips digging into Sherlock’s skin as he rocks, swirling Sherlock’s cock inside him, clearly relishing the feeling washing through him.

Some come gushes out the sides as John shifts to lift off of Sherlock and his tentacles slither in to replace Sherlock’s cock, stuffing the come back inside John’s hole so that when he pops off of Sherlock’s throbbing crown, he seals it all away inside him. It doesn't matter than John will never carry a child due to their lack of compatibility, the reflex is still there, ingrained in John's DNA.

John slides down, his lower half slipping off of Sherlock and sinks into the hot water with a splash. He rests his cheek against Sherlock’s belly, hands tucked beneath Sherlock’s ribs. He has a dreamy smile on his face and it makes Sherlock’s chest tight to see the pure and simple happiness of it.

Sherlock reaches down and strokes John’s hair, getting his breath back. His blood thuds, slow and heavy, in his limbs.

They both know it’s not over yet.

Sherlock knows John will need to take him again, this time to mate Sherlock, to fill Sherlock with his seed and Sherlock shivers at the thought, tingling all over.

John mistakes it for a chill and, gathering Sherlock into his arms, lays them back into the water, floating, with Sherlock cradled on his chest.

The water flushes Sherlock’s skin with heat, suffuses him with a warm languid glow that matches the last vestiges of his orgasm still spilling through him.

He idly fingers the coarse springy hair on John’s chest, and listens to the steady thump of his heart beneath his ear. His legs trail among the tickling strands of John’s dark blue tentacles as they pump every now and then to keep them afloat. Together, they drift around the olympic size pool, the oil that John secretes leaving an iridescent trail in their wake.

Steam licks at them as they pass, silvery mist rising from the water, but it’s John’s scent curling in the back of Sherlock’s nose that sends a jolt of heat spiking through him.

He squirms and presses his cock, slowly plumping up again, into the slick rubbery skin of John’s trunk.

John chuckles, his fingers lightly tracing Sherlock’s spine.

“Already?” John asks, as the ends of two curious tentacles slide up the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, questioning.

Sherlock spreads his legs in answer and is rewarded with what feels like two lapping tongues at his hole.

“Oh, G _od_.”

“You feel amazing. You’re always so tight for me. How many can you take this time, do you think? Two?”

Sherlock shivers uncontrollably. It feels so good, he pushes back against the tentacles and one slips inside.

The other is content to flicker around Sherlock’s stretched rim, soaking it in lube and easing the stretch for it’s friend.

“I want to try five,” he breathes out, pushing up to sitting so that he’s straddling John’s waist, sinking down so that the tentacle, which has doubled in size as it prepares to fill Sherlock with its seed, fills him completely.

“Sherlock…” John trails off doubtfully. His silver hair glints against the water which is streaked with gold candlelight.

“Let me,” Sherlock mumbles, eyes closed. Whinging a bit, but who can blame him? “Let me try.”

Sherlock has only managed to take three loads of John’s semen in the past. But tonight he feels ready for more and each of John’s eight arms needs release after all.

Sherlock squeezes around the tentacle inside him and John gasps.

“Fuck, all right,” John says, reaching out and cupping Sherlock’s hips, helping him bounce up and down on the tentacle. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock. Fuck.”

Sherlock bounces quicker and feels the hot throbbing inside him as John comes.

Sherlock doesn’t have time to relax before the second tentacle pushes inside, greedy, sliding and squelching in the seed of its fellow as, sated, that one slips out of Sherlock’s body.

He’s instantly filled again by a stiff hard length which pulses it's tapered end against Sherlock’s prostate.

This time Sherlock goes slow, lets John do the work, just sitting on it as John plunges it in and out.

Another tentacle, jealous, twines up Sherlock’s torso to prod at his mouth.

Sherlock licks at it, letting the musky flavour seep over his tongue, saturating his tastebuds before he sucks it inside.

John is watching him and Sherlock has never felt so in control. He wants to be used in every way possible by John. He wants to see how far he can go. He wants to test every limit he has.

And John, always carefully monitoring Sherlock for signs of overstimulation or pain, lets a third tentacle slither around Sherlock’s cock.

To taste his red, leaking slit.

Sherlock bows his back and moans around the tentacle in his mouth as the sensation snaps sharply through him.

The tentacle pulses, secreting more thick juices, and Sherlock swallows, tightening around it as it strokes over Sherlock’s tongue.

Just then John comes again and Sherlock, surprised, manages to tighten his hole to milk the last few throbs of come from the tentacle before it slips free.

John is panting now, his hands digging into Sherlock’s hips as he watches the tentacle that’s probing at Sherlock’s hard cock while Sherlock’s arse drips onto John’s belly.

That’s two by Sherlock’s count. They need three to keep them floating, Sherlock thinks, or tries to think, as the tentacle around his cock fists him and starts to wank him slowly, the tip flickering around the fat plummy head to lap up anything Sherlock manages to leak for him.

That leaves three more. Sherlock can do it. The one in his mouth is close, he can tell. It’s leaking copiously down his throat now and he drinks it down, bobbing as far as he can go to feel the stretch of his lips and the burn in his lungs. His eyes water as he chokes himself on it, but it’s worth it when he meets John’s eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” John says to him, obviously awed. “You’re so good to me. How are you so good for me?” And the praise makes Sherlock blush all over in pleasure.

Another tentacle slides up between Sherlock’s legs, tentatively sucking at the mess of Sherlock’s swollen, gaping arsehole.

“You need something to plug this up?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. Nods around the tentacle in his mouth, whining.

The tentacle rings the rim a few times, tidying things, before plunging inside.

Sherlock almost bites down on the one in his mouth and John, feeling the tension in Sherlock’s jaw jerks it out in time, to let Sherlock breathe. To let him breathe and breathe and breathe as he grinds his arse down on the fullness of a tentacle with a fresh hot load for him, one that is currently pounding inside him at a frantic pace. The force of it’s fucking pushes Sherlock forward, thrusting his cock into the tentacle that grips him and he cries out, his shout ringing off the tiled walls around him.

John holds his hips and makes a hot shocked breathless sound, before shoving the tentacle back inside Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock sucks and squeezes and thrusts.

He’s a mindless vessel and he wants to be filled.

Sherlock bucks, stuffed from every possible angle.

John guides him, up and down on the tentacle spearing him from behind, while the tentacle wrapped around his cock pumps him hard and fast, sucking on the throbbing tip, while Sherlock bobs up and down on the tip of the tentacle in his mouth, until all at once John’s control splinters and he’s groaning, eyes rolling back in his head as milky white come floods Sherlock’s arse and throat at once and splatters all over Sherlock’s stomach so that, a minute later, all but three of John’s tentacles trail limply around him in the water.

But Sherlock, Sherlock got no release and he is desperate.

He scoots up John’s chest, leaving a hot sticky path on John’s abdomen, and stuffs his cock into John’s slack mouth.

John just has time to seal around him before Sherlock is coming across John’s tongue and, hips rocking wildly, pops free to spout all over John’s chin and nose and cheek.

John holds him after, gathers him to his chest and washes him as they float. His tentacles taking care of Sherlock’s cramping legs with a gentle massage, spreading soothing lube over his abraded lips and his sore, loose hole. 

Tomorrow John will regain his human form again and it will be another three months until they can come back.

“What do you think?” Sherlock says sleepily into John's neck, as John propels them slowly through the warm water. “Next time, do you think I can take all eight?”

 

 


End file.
